I Still Get Excited About Things
There are certain announcements that can still stop me in the middle of whatever I am doing.
A new Anne Rice adaptation. A vampire series. A trailer that gives me even the slightest hint of gothic New Orleans, complicated immortals, or Lestat being dramatically Lestat.
Immediately, I want to know everything.
Who is in it? When does it come out? How closely will it follow the books? What did they change? Is that change interesting, or am I going to need to complain about it at length?
I start searching for interviews, photographs, release dates, and anything else I can find. I send things to people who understand why this matters. I make mental plans for where I will be when it premieres.
And somewhere in the middle of all that anticipation, I realize something.
I still get excited about things.
I Thought Growing Older Would Feel Different
When I was younger, I had a fairly limited picture of what growing older looked like.
It seemed quieter. More practical. Less consumed by fictional worlds, beautiful paper, Halloween decorations, faraway cities, and characters who have occupied part of your imagination for decades.
There was an unspoken suggestion that, at some point, adults were supposed to settle down emotionally. We could enjoy things, certainly, but perhaps not too loudly. We were supposed to become more sensible and less easily delighted.
I am not sure who decided that.
Maybe it came from the narrow ways older women were portrayed when I was growing up. They were often shown as either quietly domestic or perpetually disapproving. There was not much room for the woman counting down to a vampire premiere, planning a Halloween journal in August, or becoming genuinely thrilled over the perfect sheet of paper.
But growing older does not come with one approved version of joy.
The point is not what excites us. The point is that we are still allowed to be excited.
I Care Less About Looking Silly
One of the freedoms I have found in getting older is that I care much less about whether someone else thinks my interests are silly.
I love vampires.
I love Anne Rice and the world she created. I love Halloween, Paris, paper, junk journals, beautiful themes, and the moment when a collection of unrelated little pieces begins to become something.
These are not incidental things I use to fill time. They are part of what makes me feel like myself.
I might have softened that enthusiasm when I was younger. I might have worried that I was talking too much or cared too deeply about something that was not considered important.
Now, I am far more likely to think, “Yes, I am excited about this. Why wouldn’t I be?”
There are enough responsibilities in adult life. There is work, caregiving, grief, bills, health concerns, and the endless list of things requiring our attention. I do not need to make that list longer by treating joy like something I have to justify.
My Interests Matter More Now
My interests have actually become more important as I have gotten older.
For much of my life, who I was became tangled up in what other people needed me to be. I was a mother, wife, healthcare worker, caregiver, problem solver, and the person who kept track of what needed to happen next.
Those parts of my life still matter deeply. But they are not the whole of me.
The things that excite me remind me that I have an inner life that belongs entirely to me.
When I create a junk journal spread, lose myself in a fictional world, find something beautiful for a Paris themed project, or anticipate the return of a favorite character, I am not avoiding real life.
I am participating in my own life.
That feels different now. More intentional. Maybe even more necessary.
Excitement Does Not Have an Expiration Date
Growing older does not require becoming emotionally dull.
It does not mean we have to trade curiosity for practicality or enthusiasm for composure. It does not mean we must become smaller, quieter versions of ourselves so that we fit someone else’s idea of what a woman our age should look like.
A full life can include responsibility and delight.
It can hold grief and anticipation at the same time.
It can include a quiet afternoon on the porch and an entirely unreasonable level of excitement over a fictional vampire.
In fact, maybe this is one of the better parts of aging. I know more clearly what I love, and I am less interested in pretending otherwise.
I do not need every interest to be useful. I do not need every creative project to become productive. I do not need to defend why a new release, a beautiful piece of paper, or the approach of Halloween makes me happy.
Joy does not become frivolous simply because we have grown older.
I Am Glad That Part of Me Is Still Here
Life has changed me. Some years have made me softer. Others have made me more cautious. There are losses I carry and realities I understand now that I did not understand when I was younger.
I can still anticipate something.
I can still disappear into a story, fall in love with a creative idea, and talk far too much about vampires.
That does not make me immature. It makes me alive.
I hope I never reach an age when I am too composed to get excited about something I love. I hope I always have a release date circled, a project waiting, a place I want to see, or a fictional world calling me back.
And when the next Anne Rice or vampire announcement appears, I will be ready.
Probably with opinions.
With Love from Mabank,
Brandy
What still makes you ridiculously, unapologetically excited?
